


you were sad and the ocean dripped away

by mydrunkjoey



Category: Football RPF
Genre: Borussia Dortmund, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Teacher!Tuchel and Painter!Klopp AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-08
Updated: 2016-04-08
Packaged: 2018-06-01 01:23:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,575
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6495295
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mydrunkjoey/pseuds/mydrunkjoey
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"The honeymoon phase doesn't last."</p>
            </blockquote>





	you were sad and the ocean dripped away

“The honeymoon phase doesn’t last,” The barista states, so matter-of-factly that Thomas is almost convinced. It’s spat out all bitter and monotonous, habitual and cold. His coffee is room temperature, untouched and looking flat. He feels as run down as his decaf looks. “One day they’re sweeping you off your feet, and the other they’re listing out your flaws, like you could actually fix the fact that you apparently snore violently loud.”

 

Thomas meets the barista’s heated gaze for a second before lowering his head.

 

He runs the pad of his index finger along the rim of the cup, round and round, nails barely scraping the ceramic. The repetitive motion is comforting and familiar. It’s simple and straightforward, nothing like Jürgen. Nothing like his loud, almost brash personality, and his wild, messy hair.

 

He tries his best not to smile at the thought, not when he’s chosen to be angry, decided to be frustrated for the fourth night in a row. He doesn’t need to find charm in Jürgen’s white speckled beard and funny laugh. Not tonight.

 

It’s a Friday and Thomas is partly free from work for the next two days. At the very least, he doesn’t have to hop into the office, the office being the classroom, the classroom meaning that Thomas is a teacher. He’s logical and realistic, calculative and anal about practically everything that he encounters. (The bookcase should be sorted in some way, whether it’s alphabetical, by author, by genre, by height. Jürgen insists that he has an order, an ‘organized mess’ he calls it. It drives Thomas insane.) All their trips have to be planned out to the dot, and their bills are always paid on the same day of each month. Everything has it’s place and Thomas likes it that way.

 

Meanwhile, Jürgen is a painter. His office is a small room in their home, and his hours are all the hours on the clock, even if that means getting up at 3am due to unexpected bouts of creativity and/or inspiration. His paycheck comes at different times and with different weights, and he thrives at the sight of chaos. His fingernails are frequently caked with dry acrylic and all of his white t-shirts have some shade of red on it. (Every week there’s an added spot, a surprise smear, a 'creative’ stain.) He laughs a good five minutes when they drive off course and makes the most of it, builds a campfire if they’re lost, writes a badly-sung song about the broken plans. Life is pandemonium and Jürgen prefers it that way.

 

The two of them are on the opposite ends of the scale with a mere handful of interests that they actually share. (Football is one, good tasting beer is one, cats are another, and travelling is the last.) That, and their love for each other.

 

Although as Thomas sits in wait, as if hoping for Jürgen to pop up from around the glass window of this warm and hearty cafe (a cafe he knows his significant other wouldn’t place on the top of his to-visit list) to apologize and kiss his heart better, he starts to doubt how much of that still holds true.

 

They will always have beer, he knows that much.

 

The arguments are petty and ridiculous, they boil from stress and personal insecurities, and Thomas knows Jürgen well enough to know that he recognizes that as well. But then there’s stubbornness and sharp blows that suckerpunch the breath out of them, intimate jabs that spur on more intimate jabs. The spats repeat with growing verocity and leave the night quiet. More times than not, Thomas storms out sometimes to be dramatic, sometimes to be childish, and sometimes out of the sheer desperation to be chased after.

 

They’re in their fourties and yet their quarrels are elementary. (“Will you ever clean your studio up? You can’t keep hammering things into the wall or tossing random crap everywhere!” “I need a space that’s my own Thomas! Just leave it all be!” or “We ate here yesterday though!” “But it’s cheap and we need to save up this month.” “We saved up last month!” “But those extra hundreds went to fix that hole in the wall that you made!” “It wasn’t a hole, it was part of my art piece, and you went and filled it up!”)

 

It’s embarrassing.

 

Just like the argument they had today. Embarrassing on Thomas’ part in that his reaction was uncalled for– realistic but uncalled for. It’d been sunny in the morning, not a cloud in the sky, not a single crank of a construction tool, not a sound. Their place sat still with light streaming through their blinds, and the subtle movement of lips nudging closer together. They’d kissed in bed, Thomas rolling onto Jürgen and feeling young. It had started off perfectly.

 

But then there was work, and there were bills to pay, and clients to please, and sadistic bad luck taking their side with a broken cellphone and a burnt roast dinner. And so there were arguments. They started out petty and small, were all light nudges compared to what loomed over their heads.

 

“You know– if we have a kid, we might fight less,” Jürgen had mumbled, surprisingly subdued and unsurprisingly tired. He was right. They loved kids, Thomas being obvious from his career choice and Jürgen, well Jürgen loved people in general. It was an almost proposal that flew over his head, and he retorted, exhausted and stressed.

 

“We don’t have the money to raise a kid.”

 

Jürgen was red.

 

“Why does everything have to lead to money?”

 

The rest of the dispute blurred into 'I’m trying to fix us’ and 'I’m trying to do that too’ and ended without a 'let’s fix this together’.

 

Embarrassing.

 

Thomas chews his lip, clamps down hard enough to taste copper, squeezes his eyes tight enough to feel moisture. His chest twists and he loves Jürgen– god does he ever. And god does he want to have a kid.

 

He takes a sip of his coffee and it’s cold and bitter, like some sly reminder that his life is just that.

 

Hobbling onto his feet, shaky with the realization that the love of his wretched life is at home just as distraught, just as heartbroken, Thomas steps into the open air. It’s nearing midnight and the chill picks up just as he begins to walk. The moon’s faintly covered by cloud and he feels awfully alone.

 

He takes five steps, then another five, then he starts a pace, bracing himself to apologize and hope that Jürgen forgives him. (Even if Jürgen always does.) He slips by a Halal shop and pauses, eyes falling on words scribbled on the wall.

 

> _please phone me please when you get home_
> 
>  

Desperation written out on a wall that once was white. The words look old but frantic, the pen fading towards the end of the sentence. A poetic confession of love, a loud 'I care about you’ being yelled on the street. His chest twists once more.

 

It’s not addressed to him and it’s not written by Jürgen, but it spurs him on nonetheless. (The recognition that he has someone who loves him, who forgives him and kisses the wet from his eyes, who falls over and climbs back up strong and brave, who fights for him, speaks his adoration out loud, 'I love your everything’, hits him deep and fast.)

 

He’s lucky, he’s oh so lucky.

 

Thomas is on auto by the time he’s in front of his door, keys in, bag down, shoes off, eyes up.

 

Jürgen is sitting by the couch, his untamed locks slightly swept, his signature smile fallen into an 'o’. He slides off onto his feet, leans against the wall, and hooks his fingers in front of his shirt.

 

“I cleaned. A little bit– as much as I could while you were gone. The studio’s still pretty rough, but I can start organizing things tomorrow. I even wrote a list of things to throw away, and those lightbulbs we needed to fix? I fixed it myself. I’ll even change the oven light tomorrow. Really.”

 

Thomas’ eyes burn. He blinks once, twice, three times, and Jürgen catches the tears that threaten to fall, right on his thumb. “I’m sorry,” Thomas swallows.

 

“I’m sorry too.”

 

Jürgen collects him into his arms and they fold, cheek by cheek, fingers tight on skin. Thomas wants to tell him everything, wants to gush about how sorry he is, how much he truly loves him, how much he wants to be with him, how lucky he feels to be held in this way, how desperate he is to walk the rest of his stupid life with him– but he can barely find words. His tongue is limp and Jürgen is teary eyed on his shoulder. There isn’t a single space between them, no room for air, no room for distance, no room for barriers– physical or not.

 

It’s an overwhelming feeling, to love and be loved.

 

His lips regain only half of their mobility and with the lightest of kisses and the most desperate of hopes, Thomas breathes.

 

“I’d love to have a kid with you.”

 

And Jürgen pulls back in immediate haste, faces his gaze, and goes glassy eyed. Thomas feels stupefied and inebriated and Jürgen tops the wobbly legs by meeting their lips together. It’s sugary sweet.

 

“I’d love that too.”

**Author's Note:**

> this is for the anon who requested a kluchel fic! i had a blast writing this and although it's sappy as hell, it's so, so, very me. the song title is inspired by "best friend" by the drums, and the message on the wall is based on [this post](http://237yrs.tumblr.com/post/138078295951/scarlett-barry-inbetween-the-halal-kebab-shop). 
> 
> if you liked it, kudos and comments would make my day!


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